ARC 3 - HALLOWED

CHAPTER 1 - HIGHLORD'S BURDEN

Dulius sat at his desk with elbows braced on the polished wood and one hand massaging the bridge of his nose. Chief Inquisitor Crowmere stood before him, hands clasped behind his waist, back straight, and head held high. He was a hawkish man with a long nose that jutted out from an expressionless face. Dark gray pants and a matching coat were broken in the middle by a tidy crimson sash, its loose ends cascading down off the hip towards the mid-thigh.

“How many matters to report this time, Arnulf?” Dulius asked.

“Twelve, Highlord.” The man’s voice had the same dryness it had every day for the past eight years.

Dulius leaned back in his chair. “Very well, let’s hear them.”

The incident report had been one of the only assured items on Dulius’ schedule since he had taken the role of Highlord. Thousands of days and thousands of reports on the happenings within the Citadel. It was his duty to hear them all, even if he knew some were beneath him. When he had first taken the mantle he frequently chose to eat in the Great Hall amongst the Initiates and Templar. He’d even given up living in the manor in the corner of the Citadel’s grounds, instead choosing to live within the main structure with the rest of the Order’s members. If he were not one of them, how would he understand their pleas? Dulius refused to allow himself to issue judgement from on high like some sort of king. Yet his chambers within the Citadel, with the detailed furnishings and useless decor, were far too gaudy for his tastes.

In his early years the symbolic gesture had earned him respect from those in the Order. But in time Dulius became overburdened with the duties of his position and no longer made the same rounds he once had. He became reliant on Chief Inquisitor Crowmere to inform him of problems that he might solve in order to keep his people satisfied with life as part of the Order.

“...this concludes the report, Highlord Orgeron.” Arnulf finished and rolled the parchment into a tight cylinder before returning his hands behind his back.

“I’m sorry Arnulf,” Dulius said, “repeat the last item for me, please.”

“Of course, Highlord.” Arnulf did not pull out the list, instead reciting the entry from memory. “Yesterday, prior to the evening meal, an Initiate struck a Templar with a training weapon in the mixed training grounds.”

“Was it some sort of squabble?” Dulius asked.

“By all accounts it was a sparring match, Highlord.”

Dulius frowned. “So why the report?”

“It is something I merely overheard in my usual proceedings, Highlord. I felt it relevant to bring to your attention given the fact that it was generating talk amongst the Initiates.”

Arnulf’s eyes never looked at him. The Inquisitor took the same posture, in the same place, every day—always staring just above Dulius’ head while he sat at his desk. Dulius had tested it once—stood, instead of sat, and though Arnulf’s eyes should have been fixed on him Dulius would’ve guessed the man was blind if he didn’t know better. There was no life in those eyes, yet they pierced through him. He regretted that experiment. He sat back down that day and remained seated every day since.

“If you deem it worthy of your attention, then keep an eye on the Initiate,” Dulius said. “I would not have it interfere with your usual duties, however.”

“Of course, Highlord.”

“What of the Angels?” Dulius asked.

“I have no other updates, Highlord. Oracles continue to work with them night and day, but it is difficult to tell what parts of their memories are absent and what parts of history may have been recorded incorrectly.”

Dulius licked his lips and reached for the cup of wine on his desk. He expected it to be sweet, but was greeted by the bitterness of a deep red. Fitting, he thought. The first report of the Angels' wakening had been a moment of joy—but only a moment. A day later reports flooded his desk of Bastion’s fall to the Void. It was a resounding victory for an enemy that had been little more than a nuisance for over a dozen Highlords before him.

Things worsened in the following days when they learned of the Angels' broken memories and their missing connection to the Divine. Nevermind the fact that there were only seven of them when all of history claimed eight had been raised. Dulius had expected his tenure as Highlord to be plagued with political dealings and tenuous relationships. The Church’s attempts to enforce both Common and Heaven’s Law across the factions within the Realm were difficult enough. Now heralds on the street spewed prophecies of the world’s end and the failing of the Light.

“And what of their attempts at ascension?” he asked.

“Justicars have been dispatched, Oracles search records to determine relic locations, and thus far the Angels have kept the low profile they agreed to.”

Dulius nodded. “That will be all, Arnulf. Thank you.”

The Inquisitor spun sharply on his heel and exited the office of the Highlord, the two Templar guards in the hall quietly shutting the double doors behind him. Dulius sighed and temporarily pushed the thoughts of the Angels out of his mind. He had the entirety of the Order to lead and dealing with the Initiates had always been time-consuming. Half only joined for the safety and shelter with no intention of ever advancing to become a Templar. After five years they would be excommunicated, never allowed to rejoin, but they would have received some training in combat and an education for little more than chores as payment. It taxed the Order heavily, but the Order existed to serve the Church and the Church the people. Dulius had long believed that caring for the Initiates was the easiest method to meet that end.

The Angels, however, were a more difficult problem. Despite the endless archives the Church kept, parts of their history were missing—and so were their wings. At best they’d awakened for innocuous reasons and would go back to sleep. Or perhaps live out their lives without immortality. At worst? The Angels had been raised for a singular purpose. If it were to be a war against extinction then having them present was paramount, but in their current state? They won’t be enough, Dulius thought.

His stomach gurgled and he eyed the cold stew on the far table. He’d been sick for several days now, each meal passing through him horribly. If it wasn’t for the pinpoint pain in his gut he would’ve feared that he was being poisoned. Alas, the lack of sleep and stress merely ate at him. Despite the knot in his stomach he sat upright as one of the doors swung open and a young woman glided into the room.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Dulius remarked, careful to ensure spoke politely, yet authoritatively. A difficult balance, but these interactions had proven to be…awkward in the past.

She stood, idly toying with an hourglass on a table in the corner of the room. When the doors shut, pulled closed by a bewildered Templar, she placed the tiny timepiece down and crouched to watch the grains of sand fall. Dulius clasped his hands atop his desk and waited. He had spoken to her no more than three times, but each time was the same. She was always disinterested. Despite her unworldly beauty she never smiled. Her eyes were green and endless like the Northern Woodlands, but lacked a certain sparkle. It didn’t help that she wore black makeup so thick it looked like paint on her eyelids. And she seemed so young! Well over several hundred years old, but twenty of them hadn’t even graced her face. Both her appearance and attitude did little to convince Dulius that she had once helped save the Realm.

The Angel sighed and Dulius stiffened in his chair.

“He failed.”